


My Presence is a Present (Kiss My Ass)

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: 12 Days of Dethmas 2020 [12]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: 12 Days of Dethmas, Boss/Employee Relationship, Enemies and Lovers, M/M, Questionable employer/employee relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: What do you get for the CFO who has everythingeven if you don't like him very much because he threw you off a roof to get hit by a train then offered an ironclad contract of employment that was the only way out from under a crushing medical debt, but you're bored and lonely and it's Christmas?
Relationships: Melmord Fjordslorn/Charles Foster Offdensen
Series: 12 Days of Dethmas 2020 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055183
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	My Presence is a Present (Kiss My Ass)

**Author's Note:**

> **Dec 24 - Time for presents!**
> 
> Inspired largely by [this art](https://atmilliways.tumblr.com/post/638329088865697792/12-days-of-dethmas-day-23-home-or-alone-for-the) by Fish. ~~I'm sorry, lol.~~

“So this is it,” Melmord said flatly. “This is all you do, every year.”

Charles looked up from his work, one eyebrow raised in a small tell of annoyance at the interruption. “ _You_ were the one who opted to stay here for Christmas. I could have sent you to Australia.”

In the visitor’s chair opposite the large desk, Melmord shook his head and started patting absently at his pockets for a lighter and something to smoke. “The underworld during summer? No thanks. You need snow and shit for a real Christmas.”

Charles went back to focusing on his paperwork, but commented sardonically, “Aren’t you from California originally?”

“Yeah, that’s _why_ , man.” Ah, success. He pulled a paper packet of pre-rolls out, selected the one that looked the least bent, and put it to his lips. Around the flick of the lighter and the all-important inhale, he added, “Let me guess, you’re East Coast? Been tired of snow and white Christmases since that one fateful snow day that you slipped on a patch of ice and cried for your mommy, but you were too far from the house and no one came?”

Once again, Melmord was fixed with an icy stare. This one was downright Arctic. 

“Oooh, struck a nerve,” he chuckled. “Sorry man, I was just taking a shot in the dark. Not my fault that I have phenomenal aim.” 

“Is there anywhere else you’d like to be right now?” Charles asked. 

“Honestly?” Melmord shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Well, why don’t you go there?”

“‘Caaaaause my whole family thinks I’m dead, dude. Who was it that did that, again?” He blew fragrant smoke in the CFO’s face. “Oh right, you. Merry fucking Christmas.”

Charles flicked the manila folder he’d been working in closed in a practiced motion that also happened to diffuse the pot smoke, and leaned forward on his elbows as though answering a challenge. Which, all things considered, he was. “You got yourself into this, Fjordslorn. There’s no use whining about the consequences now, especially when it interferes with my work.”

“We both know you could delegate that to someone who’ll have it done for you first thing in the morning even if they have to sweat blood to do it,” Melmord retorted, leaning forward himself. “But I bet I know why you don’t.”

“Do you.” Charles favored him with a dry little smile. “Well then, by all means, enlighten me.”

“The real reason you’re in here on Christmas Eve is, you secretly think that they’re going to come bursting in through that door—” he pointed “—and need you to solve some problem for them, and you can jump in and play the calm, collected hero who always knows his shit. And that only works if you’re here for them to find, right? So you’re in here doing stuff that could easily be done by someone else that you, personally, have trained to do exactly the way you would do it. But _do_ they ever come looking for you?”

Melmord didn’t see what actually happened. He didn’t realize Charles was moving until he felt the sudden one-handed grip on both sides of his open collar, hauling him halfway across the desk. Half dragged, half stumbling to his feet, he barely had time to catch himself so his hips didn’t bang painfully against the wooden edge; the joint he’d been smoking fell to the floor and scattered ashes across the flagstones. 

“You shouldn’t talk like that to your boss,” Charles told him in an eerily flat, calm voice. “Unless all you want for Christmas is to be thrown off the roof again. Which can be arranged; just say one more word.”

Glaring indignantly, Melmord kept his mouth shut. 

“. . . Good.” 

Charles pulled him a final few inches forward into a brief but vicious kiss, then shoved him back towards the chair so hard it rocked back on two legs and nearly tipped over. Melmord was still gripping the chair arms for dear life (which he admittedly valued a bit more since certain . . . experiences, and the lingering dread of being confined to a hospital bed for months on end) as the CFO rounded the desk to stand imposingly over him. It wasn’t fair, Melmord reflected, that this was such a fucking turn on—but at least his body was agreeable to the contract he signed, even if his mind’s first instinct was always to try and best this domineering bastard. 

“You’ve showered lately? Brushed your teeth?”

There was a button somewhere on the desk that remotely locked and multi-deadbolted the office door. Charles must already have pressed it to be undoing his belt like that. The hardon straining at the front of his well-tailored suit pants was one he must have been nursing since Melmord had first come in the room, knowing the inevitable power play and putting him in his place that would follow. 

“Right before I came over,” Melmord admitted irritably. (It was in his contract.)

“Very good.” 

Belt undone but not removed, pants unzipped but not pushed down, Charles freed himself from the confines of black silk boxers—only the best for Dethklok’s financial and legal puppet master. As he stroked himself lazily, Melmord found his mouth filling with spit like Pavlov’s fucking dog, tense and trembling with the terrible urge to dive forward. It was impossible to look at anything else. 

“Well?” Charles prompted. “Didn’t you, ah, come here for your Christmas bonus? I’ll even let you use your hands this time, as long as you don’t wrinkle my suit.”

And the answer was an inevitable, sullen, hungry, hedonistic holiday _yes_.


End file.
